First Do No Harm
by Listless.and.Lovely
Summary: Animamundi: Dark Alchemist fic! Georik examines Mikhail (Plot, what plot?) with unexpected results


Mikhail shivered and shuddered as once again Georik's loosened strands trailed over his bare skin. This time, it was right near the crest of his hip, or in other words, nearly intolerable.

"Can't, can't you tie you hair back?" Mikhail stammered. "It's," he gasped. "Unprofessional!"

Georik smiled to himself, and outwardly gave Mikhail a mocking laugh. "Oh? Is the Captain of the Guard so feeble he can't take a momentary discomfort?" he replied, leaning over once more, closer. Provoking him. Testing his limits, as he had so many times in the past.

"Maybe I simply don't want those devil locks on my skin!" Mikhail shot back. He started to sit up, but was halted by Georik's hand on his chest. Ungloved, Georik was a bit colder than normal. The sensation was enough to break goosebumps out all over Mikhail's body. In horror, he realized his nipples had stiffened, as had _other_ parts of his anatomy.

"Mikhail, be still," Georik said, his eyes and attention on his work. His skillful fingers palpated Mikhail's torso, checking for broken ribs, internal bruising, and hernias, all common injuries in knights. Frequently, these were also appointments to check wounds and remove or administer stitches. There was no substitute for hand to flesh contact, especially for examining those in physical professions.

Georik made his way back up Mikhail's sinewy, lean frame. His fingers found Mikhail's ribcage and began a lazy, cursory palpation. Mikhail had always been a lucky knight and had only had a scant handful of notable injuries over his life, and he'd had only a few broken bones, mostly in childhood. His pale, taut flesh was almost completely uninterrupted by scars.

Georik began his palpations on the other side of the ribcage, pausing and pressing on a mottled, purplish bruise that cause Mikhail to first hiss in pain and to then clench his jaw and tense up.

"Mikhail, are you noticing any difficulty moving or breathing? Have you been recently struck here?" Georik asked, a sweet touch of concern softening his normally sardonic tone.

"It's hard to keep track, we knock each other around so much," Mikhail replied, willing himself to keep hidden how badly that spot hurt. "I took a hit with a wooden practice sword," he finally admitted. "New recruit," he added, as explanation.

"We're lucky it wasn't steel," Georik said, turning to his black bag. "I'll give you a salve that will help the soreness and accelerate your healing. The ribs aren't broken, thankfully, but the bruise is extensive." Georik continued digging in his bag, and eventually found what he sought. Before applying, he wrote some brief instructions for use.

Mikhail waited and stared at the ceiling. He crossed his arms behind his head. He just wanted the exam to end so he could relieve himself. Being around Georik still did this to him, knotted his tongue, made his temper flare, and most humiliatingly aroused him. He knew it was only because they were so familiar to one and other. He'd only ever been attracted to a few other men. And none in a long time, other than his persistent feelings for Georik. Maybe if he were to find wife it would all go away.

"I'll apply some for you now," Georik said, as his hands returned to Mikhail's ribs.

Mikhail lost himself momentarily, enjoying the sensations. The salve was cold and tingled, like peppermint essence. It felt like it burned as well, like cinnamon. His skin prickled where the salve was applied, but the overwhelming feeling was one he couldn't articulate well. Being cared for, being cared for by a man he was shamefully attracted to, a man who was like a brother, like an aspect of himself, it was almost painful.

While Mikhail's eyes were closed, Georik drank in his long, beautiful form. He'd always been a good looking lad, but he'd really grown into an incredible specimen. His long hours of training had honed a strong, lean form, while natured had gifted him with a delicate face and a head of curls that were the envy of many a court lady.

Georik leaned closer, putting his mouth to Mikhail's ear. It was almost as though he couldn't stop himself.

"I can take care of your," he paused. "Other concern."

Mikhail opened his eyes, startled to see Georik so close. He moved so silently, it could be unnerving. His friend's dark features were inscrutable, but his eyes were eager.

"I don't know what you mean, Georik," he replied.

Georik trailed a hand down Mikhail's torso once more, casting his eyes downward. While his touch before had been probing, curious, clinical, now it was teasing, almost possessive. Hungry. He paused at Mikhail's waistband, silently begging for permission, and almost not caring if the other man resisted.

Mikhail was speechless. He clamped a hand around Georik's wrist while he gathered his thoughts. It had been a long time since he'd found any comfort or release in the hands of others, but this was Georik, someone he loved as a brother. Someone he had, for years, yearned for. Someone who was a man, who would lead him into sin. A devil in disguise!

"We can't," he finally said, flatly. He let go of Georik's wrist.

Georik laid his palm flat on Mikhail's belly, over his navel. He felt Mikhail's warmth transferring to his palm, heating his own chilly skin. He was aching for this man, imagining how adulthood had shaped those parts just out of sight, just out of reach. Mikhail was so much shyer with his nudity than he had been when they were boys.

Mikhail's breath was quick and choppy under Georik's hand. He felt his face flush white; no matter how much he fought it, he couldn't pretend any longer. His erection was obvious, almost obscenely visible through his thin sleeping britches.

"Please," Georik whispered, his breath cool against Mikhail's neck. "Please let me have you. Let me make you feel good. Let's pretend we're boys again. We'll be quiet," Georik finished, dropping his voice and risking a little kiss against Mikhail's ear lobe.

Hearing Georik beg to be with him, the proud, stubborn Count Zaberisk, the cold, emotionless physician, so cynical and bitter. Now, he was flushed red with a hint of sweat beading his skin, begging to serve. Begging for Mikhail. It was simply more than he could bear. God forgive him, how could anyone resist this devil?

"If…if we're quiet," Mikhail replied, his voice hitching. He wanted nothing more than to bring his lips to Georik's, to pull his brother in arms atop him, to feel his hardness met by Georik's. To feel Georik inside him.

Georik wasted no time removing his doublet and waistcoat, lost patience with his shirt and roughly pulled it over his head. His trousers followed suited. There he stood, his eyes lingering over Mikhail's pale muscles, motionless like some great predator scenting prey. He was raw, unselfconscious with his passion, quite literally naked with his lust.

Mikhail's trembling hands tugged at his own waistband, feeling as though his hands were on backwards. They wouldn't cooperate, though Georik's were more obliging. Soon, Mikhail was bare in front of the half-dressed Georik, who drank in the blushing blond's form appreciatively.

Will power exhausted, Mikhail gently guided Georik's chin towards his own and pressed their lips together. Georik angled his head and kissed Mikhail again. They continued in this chaste fashion until Mikhail was lightly moaning, responsive and hungrily pressing his lips to Georik's.

It was then Georik lightly parted their lips and brought his tongue to Mikhail's. Now their kiss took on a profane, desperate quality, a dance rather than the childish game their chaste pecks had been. Georik hands tangled in Mikhail's hair, unspooling the curls and undoing any lest vestige of shame of reticence.

Their hands found each other's firm cocks and began the familiar strokes, gliding foreskins over glistening heads. Teasing the tip, squeezing and coaxing. Mikhail had always been a deft hand at this game. Georik had never yet bested him, and today had no intention of doing anything other than maintaining his tongue in Mikhail's mouth

They crawled ever closer to each other, pressing their chests together. Feeling the other's heartbeat twice—through the sternum and pulsing through their cocks. Mkihail switched his grip, hooking his willowy fingers around his own erection and pressing it to Georik's.

He paused a moment and parted from Georik.

"Wha-what is it?" Georik stammered, annoyance and desperation in his voice.

Mikahil said nothing, and merely licked his open palm and returned his hand to Georik's cock, rubbing it up against his own once more. The friction, and Mikhail's lustful glint, his tongue against Georik's, it was almost too much.

He could feel Georik stiffen and pulse in his hand; he could hear the old familiar moans and a whimper or two, the unspoken begs for release. He was close, and so was Mikhail. The thought of Georik finishing all over him, in his narrow Captain's bed, was almost too much. So wrong and dirty in such a noble, austere place.

"Do you want to cum?" Mikhail whispered. "Open your eyes. Look at me," he said, lightly squeezing Georik's balls. "Do you want to cum?"

Georik managed a groan in response, but he knew what Mikhail wanted. And he wanted to give it to Mikhail. "Please. Please let me cum," he sighed. He brought a hand to plaintively cup Mikhail's perfect ass and to draw the lanky blond closer.

Mikhail obliged, picked up the pace of his strokes and brought his other hand to Georik's balls. They were heavy with need, making Mikhail's caresses and touches almost painfully good. Still slick with spit and sweat, he lightly slide a finger from balls to perineum, pressing while his other hand continued to stroke and squeeze along the length of Georik's cock.

Mikhail was done for, completely lost in wringing out every drop of seed from Georik. Georik coaxed Mikhail closer and closer as well, keeping pace. His talented hands brought Mikhail to the edge. In a moment of impulsiveness, Georik brought his teeth to Mikhail's neck; almost instantaneously, they came, Georik a little behind Mikhail.

For what felt like both seconds and eternity, they lay together, the sweat cooling on their bodies, their mingled seed drying. Mikhail knew he could only stay so long. He had duties, and there were always pressing matters waiting. His 'examination' was already implausibly long for such a robust young man. He'd have to fake his injury to avoid his men's suspicion. Many of them did not necessarily care for Georik, nor for how much Mikhail seemed to care for him.

Mikhail swallowed, preparing to speak. Before he could, Georik got up and dampened a cloth. Wordlessly, deftly, he washed away the evidence of their activity, cleaning first Mikahil and then himself.

He put the soiled cloth back into his doctor's bag and dressed with his characteristic sterility. Checking that he had left instructions for use and a sufficient supply of salve, Georik returned his spectacles and other accoutrements to his bag as well.

Mikhail felt the shame he usually felt when thinking about (or when they were younger, being with) Georik and was content to let the rest of their short time together pass in silence, ignoring what happened between them, ignoring why it kept happening. What that meant. Whether it might happen again.

That is, he was trying to feel content. The shame was mixed with disappointment, with longing to follow Georik wherever he went next. To pull him back to bed and demand they stay there, wrapped in each other.

His pride held him back, kept him from calling out or even looking directly into his dearest friend's eyes. As Georik, fully dressed and not a strand out of place, made his way to the door, he paused and brought his lips to Mikhail's once more.

Mikhail leaned into the chaste peck, pulling back. Georik stopped him, placing a hand to the back of his head and tangling in those curls once more. His tongue slipped between Mikhail's lips. Mikhail felt as though his heart had stopped beating, and only started again once Georik pulled away.

Georik opened the door slowly, pausing. "If your wound continues to impede your duties, sir, do not let your pride stay your hand. Consult me as needed."

Georik donned his hat and straightened his impeccably brushed coat. He was a portrait of propriety. Even the most conservative kingsguard would fail to find fault with the enigmatic Count Zaberisk.


End file.
